


Theirs not to reason why

by Anmltz



Series: In the memory of the living [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Gore, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:46:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anmltz/pseuds/Anmltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"At least Australia will wake, even as one, ten, twenty, hundreds, of his people won't."</p><p>In the field ambulance at Rest Gully, New Zealand and America have a stilted half-conversation about death over Australia's cooling corpse, but what's the point if New Zealand doesn't know the name of the man in the next bed over?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theirs not to reason why

America is so silent in the tent that New Zealand almost misses him. Unusual, given the typically overly boisterous nature of the older nation. His arms are crossed over his chest and his brows furrowed as his gaze sweeps over the rows of beds. His eyes stop on them and he nods once in acknowledgement. Obviously not finding what he is looking for, America turns and ducks under the tent flap. 

Beside him, New Zealand feels Australia tense. "What the fuck was that?".

New Zealand turns tired eyes to his fellow Commonwealth nation and shrugs one careless shoulder. 

"He just comes in here like that, doesn't like what he sees, and swaggers away?"

New Zealand doesn't know how Australia still has the energy to be angry, although it is easy to see that it is largely impotent and misdirected. He licks chapped lips absently and decides that at least if Australia's talking, he can pretend the man in the next bed over isn't moaning in pain and bleeding all over himself from a bloody stump cut halfway up his leg. All New Zealand knows of him is that he's from home; the little blue flag with red stars tell him that.

"Just 'cause we don't really die doesn't mean he should be so bloody flippant about it."

New Zealand follows Australia's line of sight across the hospital tent to where a sheet is being drawn over a soldier, a man, a body, a corpse. 

"England's just the same. How many people have they lost? More than us, for sure."

He eyes the bandage wrapped around Australia's torso and doesn't comment on how all the red that had flushed his cheeks seems to be leeching from his face and into the creeping stain spreading across the bandage on his chest.

"England should at least fucking be here." Australia's voice breaks slightly in pain, but he remains stoic, venting half-formed frustrations. 

New Zealand continues surveying the tent. He knows Australia's angry at England and perhaps America too, sure. Angry yelling matches in muddy tents far from the fire of the front line attest to that. But not about this. Not about their apparent indifference to death, and they both know it.

"I think-" New Zealand's voice cracks from disuse; Australia’s the talker, New Zealand's not, not usually, not lately. He sees Australia cast a raised eyebrow at him in his peripheral vision.

"I think," he tries again, "that they've both seen enough to merit some kind of detachment from all this. We don't know the half of it, I imagine."

Australia just grunts and sinks further into the thin mattress, looking paler and paler. New Zealand crosses his legs and settles in, watching over the tent as, out of the corner of his eye, Australia's eyes slip closed and his breaths cease. Watches as a few minutes later, as another man's eyes close and refuse to open, even when the man in the bed next to him calls his name. 

At least Australia will wake, even as one, ten, twenty, hundreds, of his people won't.

New Zealand sits. Some time later; he cannot say for sure how long, but Australia remains unbreathing, America re-enters the tent. This time, when his gaze lands on them, he makes his way over, cutting straight lines through rows of beds. He pulls over a chair from beside a bed, now empty but for the blood stains.

They sit in companionable silence, looking over the dying men, equally helpless. For once, it is New Zealand who talks first. 

"First time either one of us has died, you know." He says it as fact, because it shouldn't need to be a question.  
America leans forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees, chair rocking on its uneven legs as his weight shifts. New Zealand notes the tension in America's frame as he surveys Australia. 

"I know."

Their silence returns as New Zealand watches America lose himself to his thoughts.

"Was it like this for you? The first time?"

It is an immensely private question, asked like New Zealand knew exactly where America's thoughts had headed, and America is snapped out of his own head to eye New Zealand suspiciously. He answers, because he wants to do what England did for him, to prepare this young nation as much as he can.

"Almost exactly."

He waits for New Zealand to seek clarification, to ask for more, but the nation watches a man, a corpse to be, scream in a fit of remembered agony and merely hums flatly before lapsing into another moment of quiet. America allows the despairing noise overwhelm him temporarily, and is grateful when New Zealand breaks the silence.

"Why are you here?" he says with no heat, the jump in topic the only indicator of where his scattered thoughts had wandered, "This isn't where your boys are."

America rubs a rough hand across his mouth. 

"First time either of you has died." America returns his words back to him and New Zealand's gaze finally moves to the corpse, because that is what it _is_ , what it has _become_ , on the bed. Takes in the pale body, the sightless eyes, slack mouth and reddened bandage. Both nations know that behind that wrap of cloth, organs are healing, muscles are stitching and skin is reforming, but also know the ugly rip of metal into flesh, one more intimately than the other.

He reminds himself roughly that that lifeless thing is not the nation he has grown with under England's care and tears his eyes from it.

"Yeah." He breathes.

"England couldn't make it."

New Zealand snorts, it seems England can never make it. "And I suppose you happened to be in the area."

"Of a sort."

"Gallipoli's a fair bit out of your way."

"Yeah."

New Zealand pauses, shifts in his chair with a creak, "Thanks."

Both are quiet as Australia gasps in a rattling breath of air. 

America shakes his head, "Don't thank me". 

The man in the next bed over keeps bleeding, stops breathing. New Zealand doesn't know his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Scattered because I wanted that kind of feel to the narrative, brought about from rolling with my mental state at 3am.
> 
> Also, this was written two years after "What Goes Around" was, so a changing writing style (due to a lack of it) probably happened.


End file.
